Let's see, where to begin? Where's my list? I had it right here...hang on...I swear I'm going to fire my secretary...she's lucky she's cute...there it is. Ahem. For those of you who celebrate Christmas, I hope it was well spent with family and friends. Those of you who are of the non-Christian walks, I hope your December was as equally joyous. To all, I am sure you are making excellent progress on your New Year resolutions. I know I'm not! Now, on to the reason you're really here!


. . .

Friday morning, August 12th, began as ordinarily as any other Friday for the past month. And, if all y'all've been payin' 'ttention, you'll have noticed the emerging trend; in that it didn't stay that way.

*Bee-Bee-Bee-BEEP*…*Bee-Bee-Bee-BEEP* Naota's alarm would jar him and Haruko awake at 6:30. He had been putting the clock on his desk across the room and letting it blare as he got out his clothes. If he didn't, and hit snooze instead, nothing short of Atomsk's arrival on the front porch would cajole Haruko out of bed.

"H-uuhnnn…'ss too early…" She'd groan with eyes still squinted shut, hair sticking out in hedgehog spikes. "Let's…let's just call in today…" She'd suggest as the alarm clock still beeped.

"'Fraid that's not gonna happen. Oh no you don't!" He gave the bunkbed a hearty shake whenever she burrowed back under the covers, pillow folded over her head to block out the alarm. "Listen up you free-loader! If I gotta get up, you're getting up too! Now move it or I'm eating ALL the bacon, and you'll get nothing!"

"Aye-freakin'-aye Sergeant, this Recruit is moving Sergeant…who promoted you to head Fun-Nazi?" Grumbling, and with a few other words under her breath, she'd crawl down from the top bunk and slouch over to shut off the alarm. Only once she'd gotten out of bed would he go use the bathroom and get dressed.

'It's like living with an adult-sized child, I swear…' TAC! TAC! TAC! That would be her knocking. "Yeah?"

"Hurry uuppp! I gotta go!"

"If you got out of bed at a decent time, you could go first."

"What-ever! You're sure taking a long time; do you need some help?"

"No, no, I think I've got it…"

"Do you want me to help you aim?"

'Correct that.' He thought, pulling on his shirt. 'An immature, adult-sized child.'

With the pair finally washed, brushed, fluffed, buffed, and combed, they said good morning to Canti in the kitchen. He…well, got up? Do robots really sleep? We'll use 'got up' to make it easier. Canti got up at 5:00 with Shingekuni, who was always out the door by 5:45 for 6:00 morning coffee with the rest of Osceola Mills' veterans at the V.F.W. Post. While Haruko started their coffee and lunch, Naota would start breakfast; the menu depended on his mood. That day was eggs, peppers, onions and hash cut potatoes with bacon, all shoveled down steaming hot with a mug of coffee 'deep enough to drown your crappy mornings in.' With a canteen in one hand, lunch bag in the other, steel toed boots on their feet, and G&R Fabrication and Cranes caps atop their heads, and Canti following, they'd set off for work. Usually Rig would greet them at the office door. Sam, Gus, Bolt, and Piddles: The Wonder Dog, would all be there as well in a yapping, slobbering, and tail-wagging mob. This morning, Rig was not at the office, the dogs were absent, and so too were George and Tommy's trucks. Johnny, Josh and Mike weren't due in for another fifteen minutes. Unsure of what to do and with no one to ask, Naota sought the only visible Carson on the property.

"Good morning Mrs. Carson."

"Oh Naota, how many times do I have to say 'Rita' is just fine?" Rig's Aunt Rita was in the garden next to their house, weeding before the summer sun became too much. "The 'Missus' is much too formal for me."

"Sorry. I'm just wondering…"

"Where everyone is this morning?" She guessed his thoughts. "I'm sorry they didn't tell you, George and Tommy won't be in today. They had to go meet with a potential client out of town."

"Oh, okay. Where's Rig at least? He's always here first." When he asked this, Rita's face fell a little.

"Ah, yes. Well…promise you won't give him a hard time about it…" She dropped her voice, watching an uninterested Haruko behind him. It seemed Rita trusted Haruko about as much as anyone else at G&R. "But Jeff's kinda…grounded."

"He is? What happened, if that's okay to ask?"

"I'm not sure. I think it was something to with that…Mecha-Mining business, or whatever you call it." She gestured to the office door. "Jeff, George and Tommy were up very late after you left, had a bit of a spat. Reminds me of when Jeff's father was…" Her last sentence trailed off, most likely meant for just herself.

"Jeff, Rig's, Dad? I heard they didn't get along?"

"Goodness me, I'm sorry. Me and my big mouth!" Rita scolded herself, then put down her weeding basket. "Well…I'll say this much. Both George and Jeff's Dad used to travel a lot, for work. So there were lots of times he was gone and Jeff didn't have anyone but himself. And, his Dad wasn't…wasn't always able to leave work, at work."

"What kind of work did they do?"

"Uhmmm…" This question made Rita visibly uncomfortable. "That was before I married George. I think it was…some kind of contract work; something for the government. George got out of it when his Dad, Jeff's Grandfather passed. Jeff's Dad stayed on, I guess. Whatever it was, it was very stressful; on the whole family."

"He's never mentioned it, I never knew. Then again, I didn't think it right to ask. I knew someone back home in Japan, whose father's job bled into their home." He recalled Ninamori and her father, Mabase's mayor. Much more than once had his office dragged her under the scrutiny of the public.

"If I've learned anything about these Carsons, they'll tell you what they want you to know if and when they're ready." Rita offered a half-assurance. "You just keep being you."

"How'll that help? No offense meant…"

"None taken. It's just, you've been a very good friend for Jeff when he needed one."

"That's very generous of you, but I'm sure he has…" Naota stopped mid-sentence as a brick wall of revelation hit him full in the face. All of June and July, be it working at the shop, jamming together on their guitars, shooting the 3-Gun course, working out, riding dirt bikes, fishing or even just playing billiards at the YMCA…not once had Rig mentioned or invited anyone else. While Naota still corresponded with Ninamori, Gaku and Masashi on a semi regular basis, it only occurred then and there, and Naota felt a terrible fool for not noticing…that Rig had no friends besides him; and didn't appear to have had any before Naota had moved in from Japan.

"I'm sorry?" Rita jarred him back from his own world.

"Oh, sorry, uh, I was just saying he's been a good friend too. He's really made the transition from Japan to Pennsylvania ten times easier than it probably would have been otherwise."

"If you want to thank him yourself, and you probably need your orders for today too, he's out on the runway. I will warn you that he is not in a good mood…but maybe you can cheer him up?"

"I'm willing to try. Thank you Mrs…Rita."

"You're welcome!" Rita beamed and went back to weeding. Naota waved for Haruko and he drove the toolbox truck through the Boneyard. By now, Johnny, Josh, and Mike had arrived and Canti had said he was needed in the shop.

"So what did you find out?" Haruko asked, rearranging herself into an optimal napping position against the truck door. "You were quite the Chatty-Kathy."

"Nothing of consequence, to you. Just that Rig's out on the runway somewhere."

"Doin' what?"

"Dunno, we'll find out." They rounded the mountain's curve and followed the strip gouged into the Earth. Half a mile away, they could see Haruko's impact crater, and a figure atop the dirt pile next to it.

"Ohhhh…oh-ho-ho! Is, is he doin' what I think he is?!" Haruko was already sporting a smirking smile and it only got bigger with proximity to Rig. "No, no way!"

'Ahhh…crap.' Naota thought as they approached a shovel in hand Rig; already coated in sweat, morning dew, and dust. 'This's gonna be all kinds of suck…'

. . .

Thursday night Clyde had gone to bed, but not to sleep. He lay awake with thoughts divided between the McDonalds across town, and the small forest cultivating below his floorboards. He'd been having such a good day, playing with his latest toy Conwell. Of course Rick would have to ruin it for him, and then make him a fool in front of the entire restaurant. And then still, tattle on him to Cole! That was the part that stung worst, being scolded like some stupid child.

'And running right to the State Patrol. Oh noooo…' He whined up at the ceiling. 'Ohhhh noooooo…couldn't call the Philipsburg P.D., the Sheriff's office. Nooooope. Had to go straight to the Patrol; didn'ja Rick?' For another hour he fretted about what could be done and how to go about those options. Finally, an idea dawned on him; and was surprised that he didn't think of it sooner. 'Ahhh…of course. That would work perfectly. And Cole could help no problem, especially with any security footage.' With a plan in mind, Clyde had settled into sleep, listening to another summer storm patter down on his trailer's roof.

. . .

"Goooooood morn'…"

"Not ah word outta you!" Rig cut off Haruko's greeting and tossed down other shovelful of stone. "I am in no mood!"

"…Well, okay then…" Even she was taken aback by Rig's snap.

"Rig, feel free to not answer, but what're you doing out here?" Naota could feel eggshells underfoot.

"I…am…grounded. Huuaaacckkkkk….P-THUH." He answered and spat a heavy dallop of tobacco juice into the crater.

"And your punishment's filling in the hole I made?! Ah-hahaha! Ohhh, oh, that's priceless…"

"One more word outta you…" Rig's face darkened and his eyes flared in a dangerous flash as Haruko clutched her stomach in laughter. "An' Ah'm gonna shove this shovel's handle up yer ass an' carry yah 'round like ah goddam Popsicle!"

"Oooo! I'm sooo scared!"

"For fuck's sake Haruko!" Naota realized this was going nowhere good fast. "He's already grounded and doing your job! Don't kick him while he's down!"

"What's got into you?" She rounded on him, looking almost disappointed.

"Look, it's way too early for crap like this." Naota sighed and already felt the creeping signs of headache. "Haruko, could you please go amuse yourself? The adults need to talk."

"Fine…fine, fine, fine…whatever…"

"Sorry about her Rig." He apologized as Haruko kicked aimlessly around the crater's edge.

"Hey, don't feel like you have to 'pologize for her." Rig leaned on his shovel. He was listening to Naota, but watching Haruko. "It ain't your fault she's got no tact. Let her get back-handed a few times for runnin' her mouth, smacked with ah shovel once or twice, and see if that don't improve her attitude."

"You don't, really think you can get that shovel handle up her ass…do you?"

"I dunno…but I'm of half a mind to give it a try."

"Couldn't say I recommend it. But seriously, really. What're you doing out here?"

"…Don't tell Bubble-Gum-Brain over there…" Rig took a minute to decide. "But I'm grounded 'cause I broke into Clyde's trailer and copied everything on his computer."

"YOU!..." He almost shouted, then remembered the extra set of ears a few yards away. "You did what?"

"When you were following Clyde at Mc' E-D's, I got in and made a copy, simple's that. The door was just tin, could break in with a tuna can opener. Anyway, there's some stuff that was on there you ought to see."

"I'm sure there is, but did you really have to break into his trailer? That's pretty risky; I can understand why you're grounded." Naota reminded himself he'd broken into Craig's car to get at his phone. But someone's trailer, someone's home, felt an order higher in seriousness. It was not to be taken lightly. "Is there time to look it all over now, or is it better to wait until evening?"

"…Can give you the Cliff-Notes version before you head out."

"Sure."

"Somewhere, somehow, Clyde's been growing, by himself most likely, all the plants being used. He has a library of PDF's and e-books on indoor growing, hydroponics, toxicology, and that sort of thing. Enough for a drug raid if I were in the club of Dick-Eating-Assholes." Rig answered, using his favorite term for the Drug Enforcement Administration.

"Really, all that from one computer?"

"Uh-huh. So, whaddyah wanna do?" There it was again. Rig was putting him on the spot, the decision was his. Naota wondered if there was some agenda or method to it, and looked at his friend; this time knowing he was Rig's only friend. There couldn't be some ulterior motive behind Rig, the Carsons, G&R…could there? He would admit there were oddities about the group; ones that if presented all at once to persons uninitiated would cause alarm. Their stubborn independent streak, emphasis on self-reliance, a disgust for what they called 'collective tyranny and authoritarianism', deep-seated distrust and suspicion of law enforcement, and a devout, abhorrent loathing of politicians, bureaucrats, and elected officials. But they had all gone out of their way, especially Rig, to help him, and in doing so, begun gaining his trust. Never had they given him a reason to think they were somehow lying to him.

However, as he remembered his early experiences with Haruko and the trauma those had inflicted, he knew blind trust was foolish. Although, Haruko had only given, in hindsight, what felt like a half-baked effort in pretending to care about his well-being, Rig and his family, and G&R, seemed to have genuine interests. So while he had some questions to ask Haruko immediately, he could comfortably go along with Rig a little while longer.

"Okay, here's what I'm thinking. We're at the same moment we were with Craig; especially if even half of what you're telling me is true. We've got Clyde doing a lot of sketchy-as-hell stuff, but nothing blatantly illegal. I have a feeling though, especially after what we saw yesterday afternoon, that the moment we're looking for, is staring us right in the face."

"Alright…p-thuh." Rig spat tobacco, mulled it over, and chewed. "Whaddyah need?"

"Give me today, and use of the company truck tomorrow, forty-eight hours. You don't have to pay me for Saturday, if you don't want to."

"Huuuuaaacckkkk…p-thuh. You've got 'em!" Rig gave him a clap on the shoulder, and with a smile, that strange Carson light in his eyes rekindled. "Go and find what you need, and nail that no-good bastard to the fuckin' wall!"

. . .

Despite the pleasant weather of sunny, seventy-two and breezy, Clyde was sweating to death. He'd mentally rehearsed his plan the whole night through, the early morning as he'd eaten breakfast. He'd practiced the exact motions, researched and memorized the layout of the area, parking lot, and restaurant inside and out. He had even given himself a rough time table. In, out, gone…three minutes. That was provided of course, that everything went perfectly. This was his first "operation", as Cole would have called it, that he was doing himself. Up 'till then, the field work had been done by men Carl recruited, Caleb bribed, or Cole threatened. But this was now a matter of damaged personal pride, public humiliation, and bruised feelings; three things Clyde could not abide. His whole life had been the butt of jokes, rejection and embarrassment. Nagging from Cole, and even…and even orders from The Man in Black himself, be damned. It was payback time.

. . .

The flight from Fort Bragg to Pennsylvania was scheduled to be mercifully short, but was unforgivingly bumpy to Agent Griggs. He hated flying, always had, and most likely, always would. But there was no avoiding this trip. His part was to ensure the impressive heap of shipping crates filled with weapons, and 'SPAM cans' of ammunition actually reached the Midstate Airport, and didn't disappear into the surrounding Appalachian Mountains. Even the plane itself, an aging C-123 Provider with only half its Coast Guard markings retained, was at risk of vanishing. The Pilot had freely admitted his record of stolen aircraft was "…No more'n…'bout thirty planes…but cert'nly no less'n twenty…" and he had also hauled more than his "fair share of all kinds of neat 'n' nasty toys, from pistols an' bayonets, to artillery an' Pakistani missile parts…" over his seven years in "tha greatest shippin' an' courier comp'ny you've never heard of."

"How much longer?" Agent Griggs had reluctantly made his way to the cockpit to check on their progress. He hoped to see they were lining up on Midstate's longest runway, but only saw more forest covered mountains.

"Oh…'bout…" The Pilot checked the scribble covered clipboard strapped to his leg. "'Nother twenty minutes. Ah'm gonna go out on ah limb, an' say you don' like flyin'…do yah Mister Griggs?" The Pilot grinned at him from behind a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses.

"You won't find me joining any airplane fan clubs, I'll say that much." Agent Griggs tentatively sat on a fold out bucket seat at the empty Navigator's station. In fact, save for The Pilot, himself, and the four additional Overwatch agents guarding the cargo bay, the massive plane was uncrewed.

"Huh, w'all Ah'm sorry to hear tha'. Really, truly am. Was hopin' this flight'd change yer mind, since it's been so smooth an' all…" The Pilot said as another patch of turbulence rattled them. "This's jest cargo flight though, not much more 'xcitin' than white-washin' tha fence. You really outta ride 'long with me on an acrobatic flight. Say, Ah'm flyin' into an airshow with some students next week, you should join us. Tha'll really git yah hooked!"

"If Man had been meant to fly, we'd have been born with wings…"

"Heh, try tellin' tha' to NASA. But hey, suit yerself." The Pilot shrugged and adjusted the Provider's trim. With the aircraft perfectly set, he leaned back in his seat and took his hands off the controls to twiddle his thumbs. "An' consider yerself lucky we ain' flyin' through tha' monster." The Pilot waved for Agent Griggs to look out the side window to port. Stretching across the entirety of the horizon and from ground to what seemed the heavens was a solid mass of clouds colored the evilest of inky black.

"A supercell thunderstorm. I've never seen one from this angle…that's a lotta rain…" Agent Griggs had to admit the pilot's eye view of weather was impressive. It looked like the supercell would be hitting their destination, but not for a few hours more. He sighed with relief, his timing couldn't have been better.

"Hey…there's ah question burnin' ah hole in mah brain." The pilot continued to watch the supercell and thoughtfully stroked his beard. "What 'xactly is you plannin' on doin' with all tha ordnance?"

"I don't know what on Earth or otherwise you're talking about."

"HA! AH-HA-HAHAHA!" The Pilot laughed, taking off his sunglasses to wipe away a small tear of mirth. In doing so, Agent Griggs caught a glimpse of bright eyes on par with, and eerily similar to, the Carson's. "Don' you be playin' tha Coy Mistress with me! In ah diff'rent lifetime, some good friends an' Ah must've armed half tha baddies an' n'er-do-wellers of Southeast Asia; certainly Thailand at tha least! What you've got back there's 'nough firepower to start, an' sustain, ah small war. There's what, jest six, no, seven…eight, hundred AK-47's alone?"

"What? No! They're, those are…" Agent Griggs' stomach wasn't feeling airworthy enough for him to think of a decent ruse.

"Look, mah Russian ain' nowhere near's good as it used to be, but Ah still know what 'Avtomat Kalashnikova' means, an' would rec'gnize it stamped on ah shippin' crate anywhere."

"Well, I am not allowed to tell you…but there's nothing stopping you from asking your cousins when we land." Agent Griggs reluctantly admitted. Of course, the Carsons didn't have to tell The Pilot anything either, but kept that to himself.

"Mah cousins? Really…?" The Pilot put his hands back on the controls and straightened up. "Today's lookin' to be all kinds ah interestin'…Ah should fly fer yah more often Mister Griggs."

. . .

'Another day, another dollar, so the saying goes…another morning spent stuck in Rush Hour following Clyde…maybe we should have stayed at the shop today?' Natoa drummed on the steering wheel and rolled down his window. They were trapped shy of the intersection of Presqueisle and N. Second in Philipsburg; just across the way from The Philips Hotel. It was a turn of the last century, six-storied brick structure; complete with a white-tablecloth restaurant on the first floor that was far and above Naota's budget. In the intersection, a trucker and BMW driver argued. Both had tried to pass through the intersection at the same time, and now the BMW's engine was jammed under the trucker's lowboy trailer. Naota was debating a phone call to G&R and have them bring out Clifford: The Big Red Mobile Crane, to get the two vehicles separated. In the meantime, he now had Haruko as a captive audience.

"Hey…question for you." He'd thought over how to broach the subject, and was going to try his utmost to do so delicately. Then again, he had never heard the phrase: No Battle-Plan survives first contact with the enemy.

"Hmmm?" Haruko was catnapping against her door, guitar clenched to her chest. Even after a shower, breakfast, coffee and an hour removed from the alarm clock, and she still wasn't awake.

"That little bit you had yesterday, after we left McDonald's, about empathy."

"Can't say I know what you're talking about."

"Whether you admit it or not is up to you, but where did that come from; what was it all about?"

"Eh…still don't know where you get these…yaaaawwnnn…wild ideas…" She was lying sure as she was sitting there, but as luck would have it, he had come prepared.

"I thought you'd say that." He pulled out his phone, brought up the sound files, and pressed PLAY.

*…empathy for that Conwell guy, at all?*

*Naota, be careful with that word.*

*Why's that?*

*Because. An excess of empathy is a sin, and a crime. Don't sympathize with people who'll hurt you for money, for sport, or because it gets them off. Some people are only asking you to help them up, so they can get you in their striking range. And, if you're really that desperate for some moral, feel-goody, self-congratulation, you deserve every, single, knife you get stuck with.*

Naota stopped the recording and found it was for once his turn to wear the smug smile.

"I forgot to stop the recording when we left, so I got the whole thing. Oh, and Rig has a copy now too, so there's no point in trying to make me delete it." This was it, he thought. He'd finally nailed her for once. He expected her to at the very least appear somewhat confused or caught off guard; he wasn't naïve enough to hope for embarrassment. He did not expect however, for her to be visibly angry.

"Alright. Yah got me sayin' what was on my mind at the spur of the moment. Big friggin' whoop, so what?"

"No, you don't get off that easy. That wasn't a spur of the moment thing." He gently pointed out. "That was an outburst of something buried deep, really deep."

"I said what I meant, and meant what I said. Quite trying to read into something that isn't there." Her jaw was tightly set, eyes narrowed and body frigidly stiff. "You've got the recording, do you hear me s-s-s-stuttering…anywhere?"

"I wasn't questioning your sincerity; that was quite evident. I want to know where it came from. An excess of empathy is a sin, and a crime…that's not off the cuff or anything, that's personal."

"So now it's personal, is it?!" She snapped her fangs. That was a warning bite. "Just how would you know?!"

"How would I know?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, that's easy actually."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Let's paint a hypothetical portrait, shall we? Suppose it's… four years ago…in a small town in Japan. And there's a twelve year old boy, going through a rite of passage, one that I'm sure ALL twelve year old boys go through; he's faced with a dilemma. He's thinking:

'There's this woman in front of me. She's lied to me. She's tried to cheat me. She's manipulated me. She's strained the relationship between my family and friends, and myself. She's put me at great risk of physical harm, multiple times. She has opened a wormhole in my head, without my permission, one that connects to another galaxy, and has invited through giant, killer robots that have tried to smash me into red paste, and the most recent one is trying to activate a device that'll destroy my planet. She's also just tried to kill me, in what I can only describe as a blood-rage. With all this considered, there are two choices: Spare the alien woman not from this planet…or use the guitar in my hands to smash her face so hard, her head explodes like a freakin' watermelon. Decisions, decisions.' Does, does that sound familiar? Any of this ah-ringin' a bell? It really ought to, 'cause that was ME."

She didn't have anything to say. Not a word, wink, blink, sigh…nothing. She just sat there with her jaw locked, a tight line of a mouth drawn across her face, and gave him only a dead stare.

"You're not saying anything, but I bet you wanna slug me. I'm gonna keep going until I say everything I need to, and hear everything I want to. So, stop me when you can't take any more heat." He paused to let her have any say, and she maintained her silence. Why she had yet to protest was troubling. She could be stewing in a seething fury, was building an arsenal of withering comebacks, or most likely of all, truly did not give a damn what he said. Undeterred, he went on.

"Now obviously I spared you, seeing your head isn't exploded like a watermelon smashed with a guitar. Why? Do you want to know why? Because, well, in hindsight, I'd say I was stupid. Know what makes me say that, that I was stupid?"

"I can think of several reasons, but let's hear yours."

"Because, I felt sorry for you. I felt…what's that word…starts with an 'e'…ah! Empathy! That's it, I felt empathy. But that's the next layer, isn't it? Why'd I feel empathy? Simply…because you looked just, so, pathetic." If he was going to get his lights punched out, this was surely the moment…no? Okay…

"Here's a woman who has spent her entire life, the sum of her talents, skills and abilities, who was reduced to shanghaiing and emotionally screwing up a bystanding twelve year old kid because she couldn't get it done herself, and is willing to do anything, up to and including, selling her very soul, and facilitating the destruction of an entire planet and the extinction of the Human Race, for a CHANCE…No, just a chance. Not a for-sure, in the bag, drag him to the bank and lock him in the vault done-deal…but a CHANCE at capturing the powers of a so-called Pirate King. Do you realize just how insane that sounds?" He paused to check if the intersection had been cleared yet. There had been no movement.

"And that kind of dire desperation, then struck me as the strangest cry, no, screaming, for help ever imagined. But now, four years later…four…years…I'm having trouble feeling sorry for you anymore. I mean, if a person hits their head against a brick wall once, it's an accident. Twice and they're upset. Thrice, they're really pissed off. Four times, maybe they're, y'know, retarded or something. No fault of their own, they're just stupid. But when there's blood streaming down your face, and bone is starting to show…yah kinda have brought the pain on yourself. That was you, with your skull showing, four years ago. Now, you're passed out, but every time the medics revive you, you're sprinting for the damn wall again. But STILL. But still, I have put up with your bullshit up to HERE! He slammed his fist into the truck's roof, buckling up the metal and giving the truck a jolt. She remained unfazed.

"And now YOU, of alllll people, want to go around with some 'look at me, I'm so much more evolved and intelligent than you Earthling Dirt-People' attitude, and lecture ME about the finer points of empathy?! And the only reason you're still breathing today is because I showed you empathy when you least deserved it…fuck on outta here with that shit. Your city didn't get trashed. Your life wasn't nearly ended at the ripe old age of twelve via death by robot. Your town didn't have to bury two thousand, five hundred and sixty three people. Your entire life wasn't flipped upside down, then left with no answers and a crushed heart. And despite all of this, I didn't kill you. It would have been too easy! I had Atomsk's full power, you didn't stand a chance. I would have been completely absolved too. Hell, Commander Amarao was ordering me, pleading and begging me, to off you! In the eyes of the I.I.B. and the Galaxy as a whole, I'd have been doing them a fuckin' favor. But, I…didn't. And even still, there's more. Stand aside Billy Mays, there's fuckin' more where that came from! After ALL of THAT even, I have allowed you back into my life, my house! I have sheltered you. I have fed you. I have clothed you!" His voice was rising. He knew his temper was getting away from him. He was also pretty sure the other drivers stuck in traffic were staring at him with rapt bewilderment. He also didn't care. Last time, at Hi-Way Pizza, the Scorpion had deployed and cut him short. Now his head, though filled with red, felt perfectly clear, and Haruko's bracelet link hadn't so much as twitched.

"So here's what I want to know! What could have possibly happened that would give YOU, the disavowed, the dishonored, the disgraced 'First Class Space Patrol Officer', if that's even really a thing at all, the FC-SPO Haruko Haruhara, any, ANY standing, any right, to even think it's your place to be lecturing ME about fucking empathy?! Not to mention your arrogant entitlement to treat everyone else like shit, like kicking Rig when he's down. Where do you get off, what doe-eyed, sob story are you gonna pull outta your ass to justify this moral high ground you've so conveniently found yourself Master and Commander of?! Answer me that! Answer me that, and maybe, just maybe, I'll reconsider whether or not I was the Chump of the Universe for letting you go."

Fuming, furious, his throat dry and heart hammering, he waited for an answer. Something, anything. What would it be? Her imagination was boundless and her scruples non-existent. Surely this would be a tall-tale for the ages. He was even willing to entertain her telling of it, just to laugh for having wasted her time.

"Okay…first of all." This…didn't sound anything like it was supposed to. "I don't recall anywhere signing up to deal with your temper tantrums. Second, we do agree on one thing, in that you were incredibly stupid. If it'd been me in your place, I'd have smashed me outta orbit like a Barry Bonds homerun. But not all of us can be suckers like you. And third, and last, I'm done dealing with your bullshit today. I'm out." She gathered up her guitar and turned to the door to get out. He had anticipated this. Before she grasped the door's lever, CLUNK. He set the locks on his door's panel.

"Like I said, you don't get out that easy. Answer the question."

"Piss off! Let me out, or I'm breaking the door."

"Fine, be that way." He put the truck in gear and drove up onto the curb, stopping with her door inches from a telephone pole. Now she could slam the door all she wanted, there was no way she was getting out through a door that only opened three inches. "I've got all day. Clyde's probably going to beg Rick to let him back in 'cause he's suffering from Big Mac withdrawals. So I can wait. Answer the question. What the hell happened that makes you such a damned empathy expert, and so, fuckin' high and mighty?"

"Let. Me. Out. NOW."

"Make. Me. I fuckin' dare yah." He now showed his own fangs and put on a show that was a lot more confident than he felt. "Answer my questions and you can talk a walk. Until then, we stay right the hell here. So I'll ask again. What's it…" Chack! Chack! Chack! "THE FUCK do you want?!"

"Listen here Dipshit…" A Philipsburg Police Officer, now sufficiently agitated, had tapped on the truck's window with his nightstick. Naota felt the raging in his heart seize into a curdled ball of ice. "One more outburst like that and we're gonna have problems. The road's clear and you can't park up on the curb like this. So, get the fuck on outta here before I lose my good mood. Yah got that?"

"Y-yes Officer." Naota felt no desire to discover the policeman's idea of an unsunny disposition.

"Good. Hey, where're you going?!" Naota turned back to Haruko and found she'd rolled down her window and was already halfway out. She dropped to the sidewalk, picked up her waiting guitar, and set off at a brisk stroll without a look back. "Hey young lady, I'm talking to you! Stop!" The policeman left the truck's door and started after Haruko.

"Well…now what? Yah sure blew that, didn't you?" The intersection was indeed clear, the light changed and Clyde's car was moving. The policeman hadn't ordered him to stay, and he felt no inclination to do so willingly either. He had only a few seconds to decide. Stay on Clyde, on the mission at hand, or go after Haruko? After their exchange just then, the sour mood it had put him in, and the presence of a Philipsburg cop now jogging after Haruko, the decision didn't take long. He wasn't concerned about her getting arrested; he knew she was far too clever to let such a setback befall her.

"And all her stuff's at the shop and my house; she's not leaving town, let alone the county. Uhhhgghh…fuck it all…" He merged into traffic, then turned left to follow Clyde. She turned right, around the corner of The Philips Hotel and headed opposite from him. He looked to the rearview mirror in time to catch the flare of her neon green work shirt, and a flash of bubble-gum pink…and then she was gone.

. . .

All the while, The Man in Black leisurely breakfasted at The Philips' Hotel restaurant. His morning began by perusing the local Philipsburg Journal while working his way through two whole loaves, with masses of honey, butter, and clotted cream, and downing a quart of coffee. Now he had discovered two delicacies of Earth. Bourbon in the evening to mellow his mood, and coffee in the morning as a shot of direct energy. For a while he had watched the men clearing the intersection and extracting the BMW from under the trailer. Seeing the issue was being resolved without further incident, he'd gotten bored and returned to his paper. As he folded pages to the Editorials, he caught a flash of pink on his peripheral. The Man froze, and reflexively reached for and opened his pocketwatch.

'And here I was, thinking today would be boring…' He scanned his pocketwatch's faces, checked the orbs circling the main face, and watched one of the hands rotate lazily, overshoot, and correct to settle on a distinct heading. It was not the one The Man had expected.

'Hm! That's unexpected, and early. But, if the time is right, it's right!' He pushed in his chair, gathered his fedora, coat, and case, and headed towards the side door. Along the way, he stopped one of the waitresses. "Excuse me Miss, but could you hold my table? I need to step outside for a moment. Oh, I'm expecting a friend to join me, so could you put out another loaf with that delicious honey, butter and cream; and a fresh pot of coffee as well?" He slipped a wad of bills into the waitress's apron pocket, and was given an acknowledging smile in return. "Thank you so very much, I'll be right…back." Outside, he hailed a bewildered Philipsburg Police Officer; the cop was scratching his head and turning in circles like he had lost something.

"Pardon me, Officer!" The Man gave a warm smile in greeting and was instantly recognized.

"Oh! G-good morning, Sir!" The policeman returned the smile and straightened his posture. "Can I be of assistance?"

"You most certainly can. Who were you looking for just now? Was it a young woman, with pink hair?" While The Man thought of them as easily corrupted, pliable and readily intimidated, Humans were capable of usefulness too. The Man in Black smiled, knowing this species would one day make fine, upstanding citizens of The Red Star of The Solar Federation.

"Why yes Sir, as a matter of fact I was." The policeman pointed up the road. "I was directing a parked truck, and she climbed out the passenger window, then took off. That struck me as suspicious, so I followed her to here…but now she's gone."

"And, pray tell, was she carrying anything on her? Perhaps, a guitar?"

"That was the strangest part of all. She did have one, and a big one too; it had two necks on it." The policeman's brow furrowed in concern. "Is she…a threat or something? Should I call dispatch and put out a bulletin to pick her up?" He offered, his thumb on his radio's push-to-talk button.

"Oh goodness no, that won't be necessary. But your helpfulness is noted, and appreciated. I will look into this matter personally. Carry on with your duties Officer, and…please. Be at Peace."

"Yes Sir. If you ever need anything from the P.P.D., just give the word." The pair began to separate, then The Man's hand firmly clamped down on the policeman's shoulder. He began to turn, but found his feet had become welded to the sidewalk.

"One last thing Officer…" The Man in Black's smile widened. The policeman blinked as he felt an air, a sifting mist, seep into his mind. He couldn't see a fog, and the day was still bright and sunny. But the mental fog was busy blurring his thoughts and clouding over his memory. "Let's keep this conversation between yourself and I…or better still, let's pretend it never happened."

"…Pretend, what, never happened…Sir?" The charm wrought by The Man in Black had worked well.

"That's the spirit." The Man released the policeman, now just as confused as before, but now was wondering instead what he was doing a block from his patrol car. He shrugged and headed back for his car, away from The Man in Black.

'…I should, just in case.' The Man had his pocketwatch open again, and pressed his thumb to the smallest face; the one at the bottom of the main face, and closed his eyes. A blink of time later he reopened them, stowed his watch again in his waistcoat and carried on.

'Full discretion at my disposal…' The Man recalled the orders he'd been given, from The Head Director and Chief Officer of Medical Mechanica Industries himself! There was an option contained within that allotment of full discretion. It was one that had worked nine times out of ten when employed properly. By those odds, Haruko Haruhara was about to become just another statistic. 'Now Miss Haruhara…where, where-oh-where have you gone? Come now, don't be shy. It's just a little heart-to-heart talk…'

. . .

Plunge the shovel blade into the dirt and shale. Kick the blade in with foot. Lift shovel, pivot ninety degrees left and toss the shovelful into crater. Back to mountain of shale and dirt. Repeat ad infinitum. Well…actually, how long is it going to take me to fill in this crater? While I'm stuck out here on the runway, might as well do a little math to pass the time. I know, I know. But different strokes for diff'rent folks.

My average time per shovelful, from plunge, to toss and back, is 5 seconds. 3600 seconds per hour, so 720 shovels per hour. Roughly, but that's assuming I don't get tired. I think I've been digging for an hour. Let's confirm that for sure though. Each shovelful is roughly one foot, by one foot, by one foot. One foot cubed, 720 cubic feet per hour; again assuming I have the stamina of an Iron Man competitor. Since I don't…

Start with y=m*x+b. My time per shovelful will increase at an increasing rate. That makes 'm' positive, and 'x' will be to a power less than 1. But, while I can't dig forever, I can still dig for quite a while, so 'm' will be low too…say, 0.1. I think a 0.1 second loss is fair, so 'x's' power is 0.1 as well. For 'b', it will obviously be equal to 5. That gives me: y=(0.1*(x^0.1))+5. Shoveling in 8-hour shifts is a standard day, so integrate the f(x) from 0 to 720, giving me...hang on…(((x^(21/10))/21)+(5*x)+C. Solve for 'C' and then the rest…let the vacuum tubes in my brain warm up, amuse yourselves for a moment…3,726.38 seconds; for 720 shovelfuls of dirt. That's just a tad over an hour, so about right! We have our model. But, how much dirt am I actually dealing with? All my petitions to have a "metric fuck-ton" be listed as an official unit of measurement have gone unanswered. So that's out.

From where I stand, the crater's roughly cone shaped, and the pile I'm looking at is roughly the same size. A cone's volume is V=pi*(r^2)*(h/3). For the limits of my grey and squishy upstairs processor, let's assume pi=3.14, and only 3.14. The crater's 60 yards, scratch, 180 feet, and 20 feet deep. With that, V=3.14*(90^2)*(20/3), and that comes to…1.7 E 5 cubic feet. One hundred seventy thousand cubic feet. Oof.

Plugging 1.7 E 5 back into the integral of f(x)=0.1*(x^0.1)+5, from 0 to 170,000 gives a total time of….go get a drink of water or use the john if you gotta, this'll take some time…...Recalculating. Please stand by. Recalculating…901,535 seconds. 901,535/3600=250.43 hours. Assuming those 8-hour shifts, 250.43/8= 31.3 days.

At this rate, it will literally take me a month, with NO exaggeration, to fill in this crater. And, I have proved it with math! BOOM. On a surely unrelated note, it's a wonder why I'm still single. Oh well… Plunge the shovel blade into the dirt and shale. Kick the blade in with foot. Lift shovel, pivot ninety degrees left and toss the shovelful into crater. 721. Back to mountain of shale and dirt. Repeat ad infinitum.

'That's a truck engine.' I stopped, hearing the approach of Tommy's S-10. 'What do they want?'

"Hey Rig!" Tommy came to his usual brake-slamming stop; nearly tossing George into the windshield. "You feel like you've been punished long enough?"

"Tommy…ever wondered what it'd be like to be a Popsicle?"

"Not really…but I'll say that sounds like a yes! Hop in, we'll give you a lift back." Whatever we were going to do sure beat shoveling. I tossed the shovel into the bed, climbed in and sat on a wheel-well.

"What's up?" I asked through the little sliding panel on the back window.

"Sorry we didn't tell you earlier, but Agent Griggs is flying into Midstate today."

"What he means is…" George elaborated. "Agent Griggs is flying in right now. We're going to meet him. You'll follow us in the Kennworth, and put a box trailer on it. Make sure there's a box full of straps in it, and the latches on the doors are working." Agent Griggs flying into Midstate on such a short notice, and us needing a covered trailer only meant one thing. Our arms package had arrived.

To Arms! Take up your Rifle, your Pistol, and your Sword! Make ready to defend your family, your home, and your planet, from the Authoritarian Fist of The Red Star of The Solar Federation! Show to the Universe that not just our military or hired mercenaries will fight, but the very People themselves will refuse servitude. Such a display of defiance shall declare ourselves to have always been, and will be from today and forever, Free Men.

. . .

For a moment, Clyde thought he'd lost his nerve. His arms had become leaden, too heavy to move, his legs rubberized as weak knees pinned him in place, while sweaty palms smeared across the steering wheel.

'I knew I shouldn't've had leftover spaghetti for breakfast…' He wiped his mouth, concentrating on not letting his nerves make him vomit. 'What's it gonna be? Stand up once more and really show 'em who's boss…or go home and jack off like some bitch-boy coward?' He had arrived just as the employees were arriving to set up for the breakfast shift; and a delivery truck conveniently added extra bodies going in and out of the building. The best part was that the deliverymen weren't part of the usual faces. Their coming and going could help him blend in, but only if he went immediately. He grasped the small bags of powder in his hand, made his resolve, and started his mental three minute timer.

Clyde exited his car, striding purposefully towards the delivery truck.

"Need some help?" He asked one of the deliverymen, the one slinging boxes from the trailer.

"Always, here." The man thought Clyde a helpful McDonald's employee and handed him a tall stack of boxes; filled with sesame seed buns. Using the stack to cover most of his face, Clyde entered the back door and began looking for his first target. 30 seconds. To his right, there was the assembly line for food, and farther down were the fryers. To his left, the grill. Going on memory, and hoping he'd studied the correct plans, he went forward into the hallway with the freezer, storeroom, offices…where was it?!

"Hey, uh…Delivery Dude." One of the employees beckoned to him. "There's no space for those at the moment. One of your buddies knocked over a week's worth of ketchup; the shit's everywhere. Put 'em around the corner up there, next to the pop machine, until the room's cleaned up.

"Sure thing." That was easier than expected. 1 minute, 15 seconds. He hurried past the manager's office, turned the corner and came face to face with the back end of the soda fountain. Dropping the boxes, he searched for the carbonated water reservoir. It fed carbonated water into the machine and there it was mixed with syrups to make everything that came out with its taps. 1 minute, 30 seconds. Found it. He unscrewed the inspection cap, upended the first little bag into it, and resealed the reservoir. He exited the building and turned right, to the back of the lot where the employees parked. Rick's car was first in line. 2 minutes.

'Please be the first one…please be the first one…' He dug from his pocket a set of bump keys. His youngest brother Cody had given every Kauffman their own set for last Christmas. The first two were no good, but the third proved lucky. 2 minutes, 15 seconds. Clyde leaned into the car, opened the glovebox, tossed the second bag into it, then reclosed and relocked everything. 2 minutes, 45 seconds.

Back in his car, he realized he'd been holding his breath. With a calming whoosh he let it out. 3 minutes, exactly. Time to leave…well…maybe…He had a desire to wait around and watch the effects first-hand. Risking it though was a sure way to get caught, so he drove away. Cole would fill him in on all the gory details later; and there was sure to be news coverage; the talk of the town at least.

. . .

Midstate Airport was devoid of visitors that morning; not a single plane or car in sight. Excepting the lone groundskeeper/terminal officer/firefighter/fuel pumper/mechanic/manager that ran the place. Mr. Taero was a longtime family friend and 'wise to our schemes' as his described his relation to Overwatch. He'd conveniently decided on a mid-morning nap in his office (hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil) while Agent Griggs' plane lined up for final approach.

My specialty certainly isn't airplanes, but I did recognize this one. It was an ancient C-123 Provider; former U.S. Coast Guard judging by the remaining blue, white and orange paint. But there was some paint that seemed fresh. Somebody, had painted a World War II style Shark's Mouth across both sides its nose. Methinks the pilot knows not the definition of subtlety. Agent Griggs must've dug deep into the mothballs to find this one. More than likely it was unlisted, and supposed to be retired in an Arizona boneyard. The pilot touched them down and back-taxied to us, spinning around so I could back the Kennworth right up to the cargo bay. Yes, that's how low-key Midstate is. You can literally drive right onto the runway. Makes an excellent drag strip for dirt bikes if you are ever bored on a hot summer evening.

"Good morning George, Thomas, Jeff too." Agent Griggs' voice had a hint of faintness to it. He must not be a fan of flying, and I envied his job even less. "Most everything I promised last time is here, all boxed up and ready for deployment."

"As glad as we are to see you…" George was hung up on that 'most' word, as were the rest of us. "What do you mean by 'most'? We didn't get screwed by the Bean Counters and red tape again; did we?"

"Yes, and no. It'll be easier to show you." Agent Griggs turned to lead us to the plane, just as the pilot stepped off the cargo ramp. "Ohhh…right. You. Ah, impromptu family reunion! I believe you four know each other?"

"Know 'em?! Sure's can be Ah do, Mister Griggs! These're them fer sure, Tha Carson Boys of Osceola Mills!" The pilot strode over, clomping in his own pair of steel-toed boots, and smiling in an ear-to-ear grin. He shook each of our hands in a rattling manner that threatened to separate our arms from our shoulders, and even lifted both my feet off the ground! "George, yer lookin' swell, Rita behavin' herself? Tommy, yah mad-man, how the hell are yah?! An'…you…prob'bly don' remember me, 'cause Ah hardly rec'gnize yah. Lookit you though, Cousin Jeff's ah proper man now."

"I don't recall meeting you, but I do know of you." I explained, remembering the scant tales I'd been told of our mysterious Michigander cousin: Country. "Tommy and George have let slip a few interesting things here and there."

"What've y'all bin tellin' him? Puttin' ideas into his mind?" Country laughed, cheerily accusing George and Tommy of giving away his secrets. "Nothin' too incriminatin' Ah hope. Those stories are mine to tell, make sure they get told properly. Ah can't blame yah Jeff, you was only 'bout…three, when we last met. Tha' was when Ah'd jest got back from mah world tour. But man-oh-man how you've grown up since then. Yer gonna be closin' in on me some day."

"I doubt it, but I can always dream." See, I'm 5'-10", with good shoes, and 165 pounds. Tommy's 'bout the same height, little heavier. George's 'bout 5'-8" and 'round 200-210. Country, on the other hand, is 6 foot, freakin' 4 inches, and easily…240 pounds. Mentally scale the four of us in your head. 5'-10" and 165…versus 6'-4" and 240. I don't know what is in Michigan's water, if Country grew up near a nuclear plant, but he got a double dose of whatever it was. Country's parents had moved out to Michigan in the early 1970's two months after he was born. The rest of his side of the family followed years later to join them. That side were the ones that had gone after my Grandad's accident. Yep, that means Country's Grandfather, and my Grandfather, were brothers. See the connection?

But despite his height and the full beard that made him seem larger still, he was definitely related, especially sharing our family signature curl of hair that stuck out from under his baseball cap.

"Oh, pardon me. Wadn' talkin' 'bout yer growin' up in height buddy." Country clapped my shoulder and steered us to the plane. "But let's not have Mister Griggs an' his boys do all tha' heavy liftin'. We'll git all this moved first." It took a good half hour to transfer everything from plane to truck. Agent Griggs had us set aside a few sample crates so we could have a look at what we were getting. Six in all were laid out and Tommy offered his Attitude Adjuster to open them. The first was boldly stamped:

AVTOMAT KALASHNIKOVA 7.62X39MM IZHMASH

Inside were ten factory-fresh AK-47's with beautiful orange-red wooden furniture. The craftsmanship was marred by the fact they were all still smothered in Cosmoline.

"If yah don' mind, Ah'd like to look at one?" Country asked and no one objected. "There's AK's, then AK's…then there's…AK's; an' Ah've had tha pleasure an' misfortune to shoot all three." He selected one and set it atop the next crate. "Let's take ah peek under yer hood…" As an AK operator myself, I could tell by how he field stripped that rifle, he could probably do it blindfolded; maybe even had a few times. "Hummm…Mister Griggs, yer too good to mah cousins here. Brand new Izhmash rifles, from tha Izhevsk Mechanical Plant…an' with ah unique serial number run too. Interestin'. Ah see our Golfer-in-Chief's arms embargo on Russian made weapons didn' slow you down in tha least." Country reassembled the gun, gave it a function check, and once satisfied it would do for his family, returned it to the crate. "Very nice. What else yah got?"

The next four crates revealed the Remington 870 shotguns, (configured in a Vietnam-era U.S.M.C. style, complete with barrel shrouds, extended magazines, bayonet and all) a single M82A1 Barrett, (each Barrett rifle came in its own crate) a series of crates-in-a-crate with each smaller box crammed with several P90 pistols, and then the Remington 700's in a Plain Jane M40 style. All were in excellent shape, either appearing factory-fresh and never fired, or lightly used at most. Then there was Crate Six. Tommy pried it open and we crowded around to see.

"Rig, Country…" George adjusted his bifocals. "You two are the gun nuts of the family. What…is that?" As an answer, Country turned to Agent Griggs and exclaimed:

"Mister Griggs…this's ah Pah-tay-tah Digger!" He looked back at the 121-year old gun, and back to Agent Griggs. "First off…where'd yah find one, let alone findin' five? An' secon'…it's, it's ah Pah-tay-tah Digger sir! It belongs in ah museum!"

"That's what they would let me have, I'm sorry." Agent Griggs apologized with a resigned shrug of his shoulders. "There were supposed to be four M1919A1's but those were gone by the time I got there. If it's any consolation, they're in perfect condition, never fired besides the testing rounds at Colt's factory." He added as Country and I lifted the 35-pound, 41-inch long antique and mounted it on its field tripod. "As long as you make sure not to overheat it, it'll shoot just as well as any other light machine gun."

"How's the damn thing work?" George asked before Tommy could stop him. Before my gun-nerd could get spun up, Country stepped right on in.

"Mister John, Moses, Browning, tha certified genius an' madman tha' he was, 'cided one day he wanted to take ah cowboy's lever gun an' make that sum'bitch fully automatic. But to do it, he put tha lever part on tha front of tha gun, 'cause he was ah genius, an', 'cause he was ah mad-man, put it on ass-backwards. This's how it works. When yah fire, gas pushes down on this lever under tha barrel, kickin' it 'gainst this lever here." Country manipulated the gun to show its operation. The long lever dropped down and swung in almost a 180 degree arc. "Which would push this rod here, which rotated ah cam to pull tha ammo belt through, an' pushed tha bolt back to kick out tha old round an' bring up tha new one to start all over. Purdy good design, similar to any piston driven machine gun today. There jest ain't too many 'round is why Ah'm surprised. But it'll do four hun'red an' fiddy rounds of…looks like thirty-ought-six, ah minute; which's nothin' to sneeze at. 'Specially if yer downrange of it!"

"I'm sure I'll regret asking…" George stated, then went right on ahead and asked anyway. "How do you know all this?"

"Tha's easy, Ah own one; 'mongst ah few other toys Ah brought home off tha record. What tha ATF don' know won' hurt 'em. It ain' tha M1919A1 ah good friend of mine has; she's burned out…two, three barrels since Ah gave it to her. But this one'll sure's Hell go bang on ah consistent basis."

"But why Potato Digger?"

"'Cause on this little tripod here, if yah've got tha gun in too low of ah position, tha lever will dig ah little trench into tha ground; an' throw half tha' dirt back at'cha too fer good measure."

"Its proper name…" Agent Griggs interrupted. "Is the M1895 Colt-Browning Machine Gun. But 'Potato Digger' works too, I guess."

"I consider myself a practical guy…" Tommy took up a shooters position behind the Digger's sights. Yes, that'll be what I'm calling them from now on. Lot's easier than 'M1895 Colt-Browning' and even shorter still than 'Potato Digger'. I'll use 'Digger' 'cause it 'digs' the graves of our enemies; literally and metaphorically. Oh come on, that was punny. "So I don't care if it's called 'The Unicorn Farter 5,000'. If it can kill Medical Mechanica Marines, then I'm happy. We'll take 'em."

After we repacked and stowed the crates in the trailer, George, Tommy, Agent Griggs and his squad, all got to chatting. Country however, waved for me to follow him into the plane's cargo hold.

"May ah please see it, what yer carryin'? He sat down on a fold-out seat, one of several along each wall.

"Huh? What do you…?"

"Tha gun yer carryin' at tha small of yer back in an IWB cross-draw holster." How he had known it was there is a mystery to me yet. I had walked in front of State Troopers with my gun on and never been caught once. "Here, if it makes yah feel better." He opened his jacket to reveal a shoulder holster under his left arm, securing a large revolver.

"Smith an' Wesson Model Twenty-Eight. Used to carry it on mah belt, open carry. But in this part of tha world, people'll look at'cha funny if yer carryin' like tha' an' not ah cop. So it's in ah shoulder rig now…oh well…" He shook out its shells and passed it to me. Compared to my GP100, the Model 28 was a behemoth. Country had the larger wooden target grips instead of the slimmer standard ones, a little bluing was nicked here and there, and there was some wear at the muzzle. The pistol had been taken care of in a reverent manner, but also had experienced heavy use and fired tens of thousands of rounds. With all its characteristics and features, it pointed naturally, was heavy enough to negate most of its recoil, the trigger pull on single and even double action wasn't bad, it had the target grips and excellent sights…it fit him perfectly. Most interesting was stamped on the six-inch barrel: '0.357 Magnum Cartridge' and…

"Is this really one?"

"Highway Patrolman. What they used to give tha Pennsylvania State Troopers; when they really did protect an' serve." He explained. "But now they're all 'bout Glocks, XD's an' this polymer revolution…an' tha protect an' serve's gone by tha way-side…"

"It's a beautiful gun Country. You should be proud to own and carry it."

"An' it has saved mah life, an' others, 'least ah dozen times. But those're neither here nor there." He accepted it back, reloaded it and stowed the old Highway Patrolman back under his arm. I wasn't too sure about his claim that his Highway Patrolman had save his life; that may have been just to impress me. "So lemme see whatcha got." I drew my Ruger, shook out its shells and slowly turned it over. He took it gently, sensing it held a special importance to me.

"Well, yah've got good sense buck-ah-roo. Ruger GP100…four-inch barrel…all dressed up in stainless steel…yah put on tha rubber hogue grips, nice. Three fiddy seven magnum, ah real smart man's cartridge if Ah do say so mahself…" He snapped the cylinder closed, turned it over in his hands, and then in a blink, threw it up into a shooting position. "Tha new wheelguns Ruger's comin' out with these days are built good 'n' proper. This's ah pistol you can cut down ah tree with jest by swingin' it by tha grips!" He returned it, and I reloaded and reholstered it just as he had his. "Now…yah've probably guessed Ah didn' bring yah over here to talk sidearm preferences."

"About as much, yeah." I hardly knew Country beyond a grainy sketch. He had been heavily involved in the Militia Movement in the 1990's, and in his home state of Michigan they had been exceptionally proactive. For reasons unknown to me, he fled the United States around 1996-1997, and dropped off the face of the Earth for roughly seven years. Given the scarce nature of the stories I'd heard about him, I suspect whatever he had done abroad was either immensely secretive, impressively illegal, or a combination of both. But if he was trusted enough by Agent Griggs to be his pilot, was at least privy to the existence of Overwatch, and didn't seem to bother George or Tommy in the least, then I could trust him too. "What's on your mind?"

"Some words of wisdom, and advice, if you'll have it." He relaxed in his seat and took off his mirrored aviators. I was struck by seeing the rest of his face, and especially his eyes. While mine are brown, and George and Tommy's a deep, dark blue, Country's were a vibrant hazel. While flecks of grey were appearing in his beard, mustache and hair, those eyes maintained a youthful inquisitiveness, omnipotent observation and enough adventure for ten, all of that defying his age. There was also something else I can't describe, but I no longer had any doubts that the Highway Patrolman he was carrying had tasted blood; and quite a lot of blood too. It suddenly occurred to me I'd damn well better listen to what he had to say.

"It's 'long the lines Ah gave to ah very good friend; he's actually tha Godfather of mah children now. We'd jest gotten through ah very nasty spot, durin' which he'd killed someone while mannin' ah machine gun. Mah friend had never killed anyone in his life. He'd never served in tha military, wasn' ah merc, ah cop, never hunted, never'd owned or even fired ah gun. He'd bin ah paper-pusher, yah know, desk-jockey, 'fore Ah met him. So naturally he's all broken up 'bout killin' this guy, shakin' an' shiverin', mumblin' an' turnin' green…total shock. He was even goin' on how he'd sworn to NEVER, kill anyone. So, Ah 'xplained it to him like this:

'Look, Rock. We was all 'bout nicknames in tha nineties yah see. Anyway. Look, Rock. Just 'cause yah shoot someone don' mean yah have to like it. Ah'd be more worried if yah shot someone an' didn' have ah problem. Pullin' ah trigger's physically easy to do, livin' with it's 'nother thang. But it's easier when yah've got ah good, honest an' just reason to do so. Defendin' Life, Liberty, Tha Pursuit of Happiness an' Tha Bill of Rights were mine…'least when Ah was in tha militia. Now, it's defendin' y'all.' Tha' would've been tha others Ah worked for at tha time. An' Ah asked him what were his reasons? Figger them out an' life gits easier. What're you fightin' for, what purpose in life is worth it?"

"…That's a good way of looking at it." I agreed after digesting the words. But I thought the advice didn't quite fit for me. I knew, heart an' soul, what I, we, Overwatch, were going to fight for. Life, Liberty, The Pursuit of Happiness and The Bill of Rights compared to the perpetual enslavement under Medical Mechanica certainly were high on the list. I did not doubt Country's sincerity, but maybe his choice of audience. "But your message is wasted on me. I don't have any…"

"Tha' hunk of advice wasn' fer you." Okay…now I'm really confused. "Ah gave you tha' little spiel so when tha time comes, you can pass it on to whoever does need to hear it."

"Do you think I'll have to pass it on?"

"Cuzzin' Jeff, Ah don' think you will. Ah KNOW, you will."

"I mean no offense, but how?"

"Simple. Y'all jest loaded up 'nough guns, ammunition, grenades, explosives, knives, tools, gear an' 'quipment to start, sustain, an' WIN ah small war. Or what Ah, once upon ah time, called: Tuesday. Ah'm not sure 'xactly what yer up to. Ah have good faith it's ah good, just cause. But, there's gonna be people in this, struggle, yer headed t'wards, who ain't gonna wanna be there; or even involved at all. They're gonna have no choice though, 'cause of tha lot Life has cast 'em. So they're gonna haftah find ah way to git through, ah way to logic an' reason, justify, what they gotta do to make it through an' survive. Hopefully with their mental faculties an' sanity intact too. Now…all tha' said, next bit's fer you."

"You have my undivided attention."

"Ah'm gonna preface this by sayin' it's less of advice, an' more've ah warnin'." Now he sat fully upright and leaned forward. Even sitting down he was nearly as tall as me, and locked eyes to make sure I got his message.

"Ah toldja 'bout Rock, an' now yer gonna hear 'bout ah woman, tha one Rock's now married to. Her name…is Revy. Long 'fore Rock met her, an' even by tha time Ah came into tha picture, Mizz Revy had…let's jest say she had Troubles. One of those Troubles was Mizz Revy's attitude t'wards killin' people. From what Ah've gathered, she first killed only to keep breathin'; self-defense. Then it was survival, day to day existence. Then, she figgered out not only how to kill fer ah livin', but was damned good at it; an' made it her business to git better at it still. With all tha practice she got, she kinda started to take ah likin' to killin'. An' finally, by tha time Rock came into her life, Mizz Revy had gone right past likin' to kill, blowin' people away. Killin' people had become tha only thang she knew how to do."

"So…what happened?" I anxiously awaited for what came next. "She, I assume, got better, or something…right?"

"Took ah long time, lots ah screamin', kickin'…bitin' an' clawin'…effort an' ah huge heap of patient love, but she did. It was so hard 'cause she'd forgotten how to be ah Human Bein' an' had to relearn from square one. An' there's mah warnin': Do. Not. Do not forget, yer Humanity. Whenever this fight of yours comes to pass, yer gonna see all kinds of awful, terrible an' horribly unspeakable things. Yer gonna see otherwise decent people doin', all kinds of awful, terrible an' horribly unspeakable things. An' Ah promise yer gonna DO, all kinds of awful, terrible an' horribly unspeakable things. Such's tha nature of it, Nature of War. It's unavoidable. Tha only nice War is tha' little card game Ah played as ah kid."

"So how do I do that, but not risk losing?"

"Oh, don' git me wrong! Fight to win, obviously! Don' be some kinda virtue signalin', empty-headed Liberal, sayin' stupid shit like 'If yah kill yer enemies, they win.' If yah've got gasoline an' Styrofoam, make napalm an' USE IT. Dump it down tha bunker vents an' burn 'em out. If yah've got ammonium nitrate, powdered aluminum, an' nitromethane, mix tha' stuff together into ANFO, an' then USE IT. Yer enemy barricaded himself in ah buildin' an' even God himself won't git tha bastard out? Blow tha building an' bury tha stubborn bastard in it. If yah've got artillery on hand, be sure to fire fer effect 'till tha guns turn red; 'specially if yah git ahold of some white phosphorous; Willy Peter is one mean sum-bitch, Ah'll tell yah. Use bayonets, knives with sawback blades, hatchets, clubs, tomahawks, axes, picks, shovels, whatever it takes to make sure yer enemy gits tha message through his helmet an' thick skull too. Shoot hollowpoints, frangible an' even tracer, incendiary an' 'xplosive rounds if yah got 'em. Always shoot tha officers or head honchos first. Ambush 'em when they're walkin' to their mailbox, in tha middle of tha night 'round tha clock so they'll never sleep. Steal everythan' yah can from yer enemy an' destroy, break, an' otherwise ruin anythang yah can't run off with. Exploit his weaknesses, never let ah good opportunity pass you by…but never forget how to be Human. Ah know how contradictory it sounds, an' it's ah bit of mental gymnastics to 'xplain this to yah. It'll be somethin' you define fer yerself an' self-regulate. Uh, examples. Leave civilians alone. If yah take pris'ners, take tha time to treat 'em decent as is prudent. Don' kick yer enemy when he's down an' utterly defeated an' defenseless. Respect 'em. The first huge battle Ah ever fought in, we went up 'gainst two-thousand mercenaries; two-to-one odds. An' we kicked tha ever lovin' shit outta them. Know what we did when we had 'em cornered, with their backs literally at tha ocean, half of 'em dead, another quarter or so wounded? Keep in mind, they were fixin' to raze our town to tha ground an' kill everyone an' everythang inside tha city limits."

"What?"

"We let 'em go! There was no point in killin' tha rest of 'em. They were jest mercs, paid soldiers. We beat 'em fair 'n' square after they put up one damn good fight, but there was no sense, no justification to execute 'em all. So we helped 'em clean up, bury their dead an' once tha' was done, told 'em to git lost. Always try to give 'em ah way out, chance to change their minds. If they wanna surrender an' call tha whole fight quits, let 'em. An enemy tha' don' wanna fight you, ain't one. So there's mah warnin'. Ah've seen, an' done, some've those awful, terrible an' horribly unspeakable thangs, witnessed lots of others do tha same…an' yer gonna be next. But do not, you cannot, let them, tha thangs you do, control you, way-lay you, become, consume you. Tha's what almost happened to Mizz Revy, an' Ah don' want you to haftah go through what she did. Ah saw jest ah small part of her sufferin', but it was 'nough fer me. Now, last little bit. Tha' sayin' Ah mentioned earlier, 'bout killin' yer enemies, really ought to have three parts:

- If yer enemy kills you, don' matter how, an' even if yer hands are still unbloodied an' 'pure'…you lose an' he wins.

- If you kill yer enemy an' keep yer humanity more or less intact, he loses an' you win.

- If you kill yer enemy, an' in doin' so destroy yer humanity, yer soul, to where all yah know is Death…then both of y'all have lost.'"

. . .

"Good morning and welcome to McDonald's. What can I get you today?"

"I'll have…a Number Two, with an extra hashbrown, throw in a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit, and I'll just have a large pop instead of the OJ or coffee. Please and thank you."

"Certainly sir." The first man in line paid for his food, filled his cup with Coca-Cola and sat down to eat. As he chewed, he watched two kids fill their own cups from the fountain. They were doing what he used to at that age, mixing Coca-Cola and lemonade, and Root Beer with Dr. Pepper. The rest of the breakfast crowd shuffled through, while commuters snagged a quick bite from the drive-thru window. Biting into a hashbrown, the man turned his attention to the lobby television.

"…And now an update from our nation-wide reporting team. Today we're hearing from Trent, in Indiana. Trent, what's going on in America's Crossroads?"

"That's the question everyone's asking, Carol. Authorities of the South Bend Police, their CSI team, and the Rail Commission, are still investigating the now two week old incident that occurred at the South Bend switching yards. The cremated remains of a young adult male had been found here by a morning shift worker, but since the incident is believed to have occurred at four or five in the morning, there were no witnesses of the actual event."

"Do they have any leads on the identity of the victim?"

"Not yet. All distinguishing characteristics such as fingerprints, facial features, or tattoos if he had any, have been burned away. This also includes the contents of his wallet. So the police have no driver's license, photo ID, credit cards, or anything like that. The head of the forensic team for this investigation has stated his team will attempt 'to match the man's teeth to known dental records'. This appears to be their only option at this point…"

The man didn't get to hear the rest of the report. A debilitating wave of pain slammed into him, and it felt like he'd been stabbed in the heart. He clutched at his chest as the pain worsened, coloring his vision with dots. The table rose up to meet him as he collapsed, then tumbled to the floor. It seemed he wasn't the only one, all around patrons dropped with sickening thuds while they too gasped in pain. He couldn't turn his head, his eyes were locked forward and breathing was becoming difficult. However, his vision and ears still worked.

Helplessly he watched the two children at the soda fountain. The boy, no older than 7, ran to his mother. She had already doubled over before her son began screaming there were 'needles' in his stomach. His sister began bawling in embarrassment and her own pain as she vomited, the wet splats of puke sounding off the tiles. The man watched the children cling to their mother as she began convulsing in a seizure, and then they succumbed to their own tremors.

The man tried forcing himself to move, but his body wouldn't respond. If only he could force himself to weep for the children dying in front of him, that would have been better than being able to do nothing. As his lungs burned for air and heart labored to pump, it occurred to him to wonder who, or better, why, this had befallen him. Was it terrorism? Some criminal act, a psychopath's doing, a new serial killer? In the end, to him at least, it didn't really matter who or why. At least he had seen his children off before he'd left cross-country on business, and they knew Daddy loved them. He wished he could have told them one last time, but as his heart finally seized and his vision went dark, it was not meant to be.

. . .

It had been one of the strangest things Naota had seen Clyde do; that wasn't saying a lot since Clyde never really did much of anything. But this really broke the pattern. He'd taken some boxes from the delivery truck, gone inside via the employee entrance, came back out and unlocked a car that wasn't his, fumbled around for something in it, then got back into his own car…and drove off. He didn't even stop inside the McDonald's to order anything. Naota had captured it all with the Polaroid, making sure the shots showed irrefutably Clyde's face. But now Naota had two people to watch for: Clyde and Haruko.

"Can't imagine where she'd go…" He tried to guess at her potential actions or any destination she'd have in mind. "But trying to read her mind…I'd have better luck counting grains of sand on the beach. She probably went home and is sulking on her bed. Wonder what she's gonna say to weasel out of this one?" All the grumbling wasn't helping his mood, but talking out the frustration at least gave the illusion of helping. It was tempting to cry and shout 'it's not fair', but that kind of whining was for kids. Instead, he settled on…one-sided. That sounded more mature. It was one-sided that he still hadn't made any progress on how Haruko ticked. She knew him, for the most part, front and back; better so concerning his N.O. channel. Perhaps that was just how it was always going to be? No…no, that was unacceptable. But he had learned a shortcut to winding her up tighter than a two-dollar watch…and that was more than he'd started the day with. So that was something goin' for him, which was nice.

"Still…probably should call Rig and let him know she's gotten lose. Heh, gotten lose, that makes her sound like a pet cat. But if Rig, or any Carson for that matter, is out driving and not looking out for Haruko…well, there might be an accident. It'd be a real shame if Haruko got run over with a dirtbike instead of me for a change…oh, what a tragedy that would be…holy shit! Where're they going?!" Two P.P.D. cruisers rocketed by, lights and sirens blaring. They were headed from where he'd just come; back to the mall. Checking his mirrors, he saw them turn off into the mall's parking lot. "Must be a 'buy one, get one free' special on doughnuts at the Bilo…" He reached for his phone to call Rig, but the phone began buzzing in his hand. Rig had beaten him to it.

. . .

The morning had put the three of us in a right jolly mood as we headed back home. Tommy and I were in the S-10 while George had taken charge of the Kennworth. It was after all, crammed full of ordnance. Before he and Agent Griggs had flown off, Country had invited us all down to his home in Virginia 'fer Christmas if yah need to make an 'xcuse; but y'all are welcome anytime. Frederica loves any reason to have parties, an' both Hansel an' Gretel'll be home durin' tha holidays so you can meet them too.' So I also had that to look forward to, which was awesome. Agent Griggs had pulled me aside to ask if Country's surname was Carson too, and I told him it wasn't; he was on the other side of the family. When Agent Griggs pressed me for what his name was then, I reminded him he knew 'damned good 'n' well' if Country hadn't told him, then I certainly had no business doing so.

When we hit the northern Philipsburg city limit, everything seemed to hit fast-forward. First, the police scanner on the S-10's dash lit off like the South Central Riots had come to town.

"Philipsburg Dispatch to all units. 10-35 in progress at US-322. Code 102, possibility of Code 104. Send E.M.S., Fire and all available units. 10-39 is in effect. Dispatch out."

"Holy shit Rig, my hearing must be going out…" Tommy checked the scanner to ensure it was working properly. "Did I just hear that?"

"A 10-35, major crime alert. US-322 is the P.P.D.'s word for the McDonald's. Code 102…is, mass casualty. Code 104 is Hazmat…and 10-39 is to use your lights and sirens." I translated the P.P.D.'s codes as another bulletin came in.

"Philipsburg to all units responding to 10-35 at US-322. On-scene reports multiple 10-50VA. Follow-up response to set up for 10-58. Dispatch out."

"And now multiple vehicle accidents, enough they're having guys reroute traffic. I sure hope my hearing's bad too, this broadcast started off bad and sounds like it's getting worse." I wondered if Naota and Haruko had seen anything and decided to call them up. After all, Clyde had been kicked out of US-322, the McDonalds, not even 24-hours prior. I dialed for Naota and he picked up like he'd been waiting with his thumb on the TALK button.

"Hey Rig, you're near a police scanner right?" Full of questions aren't we? My day is going fine by the way. "What's going on?"

"Morning to you too. Yeah, I am. Something nasty down at McDonalds; the P.P.D. is sending all units. Did you see anything?"

"I'm afraid I did. I watched Clyde sneak in and out just before it opened. He pretended to be one of the delivery guys; then he put something in someone's car. Hey…you don't think…?"

"What's Haruko's take? Ah'm not hearin' her chime in, am I not on speaker?"

"Well, uh, you see…about that." …Naota. No…

"What…about her, Naota? Pray tell?" Please no…

"She's…not here at the moment." No, no…

"Then go get her, and put her on." No, no, no…

"…I can't." NO. NO. NOOO…

"Naota. I'm going to ask what hopefully is a stupid question, but…WHY NOT?"

"I…I…lost her?"

"YOU WHAT?"

"Well goddamn it Rig, it's not like I keep her on a collar and leash!" Yah know what, that's fair…kinky…but fair. "We got into an argument this morning, she got pissed, and left. Saw her last at The Philips."

"Eeeuuughhhh…shit. The Philips House eh? Alright, uh, stand by." I looked over at Tommy, held up my hands and gave him my best 'Help me out here!' face. He countered with his own 'The hell do you want me to do?!' look. Thanks Cuzz. "Hey, you're still on Clyde, right?"

"Uh-huh, like a bad habit." At least we got that goin' for us…which is nice.

"Stay that way then. I'll make some calls, see if anyone's seen the Pink-Haired Wonder around." As bad as Haruko wandering around unsupervised, I wasn't immediately worried about her causing trouble. She was prob'bly lazin' around somewhere with a bad attitude. I remembered all her stuff was still at Naota's, and her Vespa was at the shop. She wasn't going anywhere fast or soon. It was just nerve-wracking to be imagining what she could be up to…especially with a Man in Black on the prowl, the Kauffman's out 'n' about, and the cops running like headless chickens. See, fast-forward. So Rig, how did things go to shit? Well, very slowly…and then all at once. "Hell, she's prob'bly back at your place already; havin' herself a second breakfast."

"True, that sounds like her. Sorry about losing track of her, I should've known better."

"It happens to the best of us, don't feel bad. You said she likes to wind people up for fun. It was just your turn…huh?" A new call was coming in. I recognized it as Rick's number; McDonald's managerial maestro. He was part of our observation network, feeding us information on passing through troublemakers. A restaurant is a perfect spot to see who is coming and going in a town. He wasn't calling just to say hello. "Hey Nao', I got another call I have to take. Keep on what you're doing, I'll let you know what I find."

"Will do. Later." He hung up and I switched over to Rick.

"This's Rig. Talk to me Rick, are you okay? What's going on?"

"Oh, oh Jesus Christ, I…I wish I could tell you…" Rick sounded a shade of pale shy of a panic attack. "We, we opened for breakfast, got the morning delivery…oh, oh God, people just started dropping! Then there were some from the drive-thru that drove out into traffic and crashed. It's like some disaster movie thing or something!"

"I heard as much on the scanner, are you okay though? You're not feeling woozy or anything?"

"No, nah, nah, I'm fine…I just…fuck! Do I sound okay?! Sorry, sorry…just…oh God…" I was at a loss of anything to say. It was priority to find out the who-dun-it and so on, but it almost felt wrong to dump those questions on Rick when his world had flipped upside down. I still had to try though.

"Any idea who or what caused, whatever it was?"

"Take…a wild, fuckin' guess! I got no proof, I'll have to check the security footage before the cops confiscate it; thank God for remote back-ups. Don't want them deleting the film…ah, excuse me? Can I help you?" Someone was butting in on our talk. "Ex…excuse me Officer! You're, you're what?! Now just, hang on now, I'm being arrested?! For what, on what grounds, on what charges?!" Well, the cops definitely aren't wasting time. No, don't worry about the casualties. Immediately look around for a patsy to blame; where's the nearest convenient fall-guy? Dickheads… "Oh what the hell, that's not…when did I give you permission to search my car? Get away from my car, I DO NOT give you permission to search it. Huh? No! No that's not mine! Where did you…HEY! Don't touch, hey! Hey, let me go…let me-crummdpshdssdasdhhhhh…beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppp…click. We're sorry, but your call has been suddenly disconnected. Please…"

"George, this is Tommy, come-back?" Tommy picked up the CB.

"Tommy, this is George, come-on." After prefacing with 'where do I even begin?' Tommy relayed to George all that had just transpired.

"Sounds like something Clyde would do, eh?" Tommy asked after concluding and George stopped swearing. "What with historical precedent?"

"Yeeep. Sad to say this isn't the first time…"

"I'm gonna need some context please." I asked.

"Oh, right. 'Bout, twelve years ago, there was The Exlax Affair at the elementary school." George explained, but with a voice that sounded like he was being forced to describe, with detail, a dog getting hit by a truck. "You've never heard of it 'cause the school board's kept it all very hush-hush. There was this gang of girls about a grade or two above Clyde, who liked to bully the kid; just tortured the hell outta him. The worst day was when they corned him in the bathroom at recess, and that was when camera phones had just come out…you can guess at the messed up shit they took pictures of. Kids can be the worst, or best, I guess, sadists. Young girls especially, at least a boy will just punch you and be done… Not only did they take pictures of Clyde, but they also thought it'd be really funny to share them with all their friends. You know how stuff like that is viral, all it takes is one broken promise of 'now don't show it to anyone else', and then everyone knows. The school didn't want what should've been a sexual assault case on their hands, so they tried to smooth the whole thing over and no one really got punished…and Clyde took exception with that."

"So with exception, came Exlax?"

"Yep. One day he somehow, no one could figure out how, got enough Exlax to clear out a clogged New York City sewer line, into their tomato soups at lunch. They all had to be rushed to the hospital, one had an allergic reaction that made her intestines lock up…while still having explosive shits. Clyde got kicked outta school for a while; they even sent him to some psych place. I don't think it did a lick of good though, he's been messed up ever since. Becoming a pariah at school didn't help much either…"

"That whole story was fucked up from start to finish…" It still did not excuse Clyde in the least if he was responsible, don't think that for a minute. But it sure did provide some background as to why he had done what he did. "So, history repeating itself then?"

"Seems like it; except now he's framed Rick for it…" George drifted off and we sat at the light with the CB on dead air. Each of us was waiting for the other to speak. I think it was because how everything had flipped so totally and so quickly. We had been at a sudden high point from the airport, and now all that ground had dropped from under us. There was also the feeling, at least to my own bias, that we had dilly-dallied too long, yet again; and now civilians were paying for it.

"George, orders?" Tommy called on the CB and heard no response. "Major Carson! I need orders, sir!"

"Yes, Captain, Carson, I heard you the first time." George reminded us that even though we're family, Overwatch still has a rank and command structure. He took a deep breath to settle himself before going on. "Tommy, Jeff. I will bring the truck home and store it. You are to proceed to Clyde Kauffman's location, relieve Naota of his duties, and put a stop to this bullshit. Am I clear?"

"Crystal." Tommy turned left onto Water Street while George continued across the Red Moshannon into Chester Hill. "That's a big 10-4, over and out."

"God's Speed, out."

"Rig, check yourself lest you wreck yourself." We pulled off behind Centre Bearings and used their wall of stacked delivery pallets for privacy. I drew my gun, checked its cylinder, reholstered it, and patted my belt to ensure my three spare speedloaders were in place. Tommy made a double check as well, his everyday carry was a Generation 4 Glock 21 in 0.45ACP. Both of our personal sidearms had the feature of 'draw-bang'. They had no external safeties to flip or push off. Glock pistols only have a trigger safety, so to fire you just pull the trigger. Revolvers are similar, but without even the trigger safety. The double-action trigger pull is harder than thumbing back the hammer first, then firing. It was a small thing, no safety, but it gave us just the smallest edge when drawing and firing under stress.

"I am all set over here." Tommy nodded that he was too and gave an impromptu briefing.

"Remember that your sidearm is an absolute, last-ditch, every, and all other options have been tried and exhausted. Do I make myself abundantly clear?"

"Yes."

"Do not draw it, do not flash it, do not touch it, do not stand with your hand on the grip, do not even put your hand anywhere near your gun. We will not be holding anyone at gunpoint. If you draw, that means you are going to shoot, and are dammed well prepared to suffer any and all consequences. Am I still being abundantly clear?"

"Yes."

"Good…good…" Satisfied, Tommy turned us back onto the road. I blinked and we were entering Water Street Mobile Homes. "I will do the talking, unless I ask you to elaborate on some detail. Do not try to ab-lib or improv, okay? Just stand ready and…try to look intimidating."

"No promises, I'll see what I can do." As we approached Naota and the G&R toolbox truck, I suddenly forgot I was supposed to breathe on a regular basis. My nerves, my singing nerves, quiet please. My heart, be still. I wasn't even going to ask God, Allah, Budhha, Shiva and the Flyin' Spaghetti Monster for help. No way was I gonna trust the outcome of our talk with Clyde to the decisions of a freakin' committee…especially one that couldn't even agree on what meats you can and can't eat. No thanks, I'll just run on luck for this one.

"That's the best sound of confidence and enthusiasm I've heard this side of The Charge of The Light Brigade." Tommy pulled up next to Naota and both rolled their windows down. "Fancy meetin' you…come here often?"

"Seems like almost every day…but I can never remember why…" Good one Naota, well played. "What's up?"

"There's a lot goin' on in town today, everyone's bent outta shape about it. Word on the grapevine is it was something at the McDonalds?"

"If that's the word, then that's probably right." Naota rummaged on his seat for the camera and the pictures he'd taken. "I took these about, oh, fifteen minutes ago? Might have something to do with…well, what is the grapevine saying happened?"

"Not sure, to be honest…" Tommy reached out to take the pictures. He held them over the center console so I could look too. That was Clyde alright, and that was certainly him going in and out of McDonalds…and sadly, Rick's car too. As I studied the pictures, Tommy kept talking to Naota. "Say, where's the other half of the Dynamic Duo? Or, is it now the Dynamic Uno?"

"Hopefully in the, uh…what do you call it Rig? That one place in that one Rush song you play all the time?"

"The Land of The Lost Xanadu, home of The Pleasure Dome, as decreed by Kublai Khan." Do I know my songs…or do I know my songs?

"Yeah, Tommy, that one. Somewhere in that neighborhood. Ideally." Naota added with some afterthought. "Really, somewhere in town, but that's all I know."

"You two have a fight or something?" Tommy asked.

"Yeah…"

"What about?"

"Nuthin'…"

"Naota, don't you nuthin' me! That just isn't you." Tommy sure had a good read on Naota. "If you are getting upset, it's something important. I don't see you blowing up over Haruko changing the radio station without asking."

"Uhhgg…well…Yesterday, she just, went off on this rant about empathy; of all things. And I thought it kinda misplaced, thinking about everything she's done, you remember the story I told you. So today I tried to bring it up, and both of us didn't take it well."

"Let me guess…you went on a raging, raving tirade that would make a talk radio host envious, and after rightly demanding answers, she blew you off like yesterday's news and left?"

"Yep."

"Figured." Tommy sagely nodded, then un-sagely began scratching at his neck's five o'clock stubble. "I think, if you'll hear me out…your problem with your approach is you're trying too hard. You're skipping reconnaissance and scouting the area, and are rushing right for the castle gates. You haven't done any ground work. That's why she won't talk to you. She hasn't seen it fit to trust you."

"SHE, doesn't trust, ME?! What kind of bullshit is…?!"

"N-AH-AH-AH-AH!...Settle down!" Tommy commanded and smothered Naota's indignation. "Look, the reason both'ah y'all are getting nowhere is because neither of you trusts the other. Like it or not, believe it or not, accept it or not, that's the reality. Until that problem is overcome, all you will continue to get is pissed off and nowhere. Something, or things, happened in her life that makes her keep everything about her on lockdown. You screaming at her is only going to make her batten down the hatches tighter. So start thinking of ways to gain her trust and see where that gets you."

"Ways to gain her trust? Like what?"

"Well…there's one way that immediately comes to mind…" I thought I'd offer a suggestion. "Yah could try gittin' her drunk."

"Neither of you have the experience, or Game, for that kind of stunt." Tommy buzzkilled my idea. "Save that as a last-ditch option only. Try…hell, try just finding something in common."

"Besides work?"

"Obviously."

"Hmmpphh…well…" Oh come on, it can't be that hard Nao'! You've spent nearly every day with her for the past month! What all do, you two, do, alone, in the truck all those hours? It obviously ain't suckin' face. "We both play guitar…?"

"Eureaka! He's found it. That's your 'in'. So, go find her, and say…oh, Rig's invited y'all over to his house to play as a trio, and see how that goes."

"Wait, I invited who, to do what, and where?" This was news to me.

"Quiet you." Tommy shushed me. "You're probably gonna have to apologize a bit…I know, I know, I know!" He waved Naota down. "Humility is a great strength, and it can get you a lonnnnng, long way; even just a little of it works wonders."

"I'd have to find her first, and I'm kinda stuck watching Clyde at the moment; Rig told me to stay on him…" Oh sure, blame me. Golly Naota, the underside of this bus you've thrown me under is really dirty…I see where your loyalty's at buddy, pal…and I thought we were friends.

"We can take over for a bit." Tommy offered. "We've got the camera, pictures, Rig can get me caught up on the notes and details…it'll be no problem! I've always kinda wanted to be a spy or private investigator of sorts, let me indulge this fantasy please?"

"You sure? You don't have, anything, more exciting to do?"

"We ran our one big errand this morning, so the rest of our day is free. Don't worry, I've watched Law and Order, I know how this works. I'll just have to send Rig out for some doughnuts and coffee and we're set."

"If this's really how you want to waste your morning…then I won't stop you." Oh no Naota, we can tell how excited you are to rush off. You really are worried about Haruko's well-being…sheesh. Getting him to leave that trailer park and start canvassing town was like pulling teeth. He tossed over his notes and I began habitually transcribing them into my own. "Those're all I've got for today. I'll check in same times as usual?"

"Every half hour, on the half hour. Sounds good. Let us know when you find her!" Tommy sent him off. Naota said he would and departed back into downtown. Now it was just Tommy and I hanging out next to the dumpster. While we sat, he dug an ancient laptop in a dusty case, most likely left over from his college days, from behind his seat. He plugged its charger adaptor into the cigarette lighter and opened Powerpoint. He also asked for the external hard drive I had; the one with a copy of everything of Clyde's computer, and some choice Ice Pick screenshots I'd added to the collection. We had several duplicates of all the files now, plus everything backed up on our computers at the shop, but you never know when you might need the info.

"What're you doing?" I asked as Tommy began typing.

"Makin' a slideshow…"

"No! Say it ain't so. That what they teach in college, how to make sweet slideshows?"

"Nah. College is Introduction to Word. Powerpoint is only at the I.I.B.'s academy."

"Hmm. And if you're some kind of prodigy, they'll let you use Excel?"

"Now you're catching on."

"What about Access?"

"Oh, you have to be in the G.S.P.B. to have clearance to use Access."

"But don't only prissy, high-and-mighty, know-it-alls use Access?"

"Must I repeat myself?"

"That's about right." I had really psyched myself up for this, for a face-to-face with Clyde. My adrenaline was ready to go, my chakras or whatever aligned…and there we sat. There we sat, and with Tommy tacking away on his 90's era brick of a computer. "Uh…Tommy?"

"Uh…Rig?"

"Are we gonna…y'know…go? Or are you having a flashback to Accounting 101?"

"Remember how I've been telling you to think more'n' two seconds past your nose?"

"Yeeeaaaahhh…?"

"Do that for a minute, please."

"I don't, I don't follow."

"What's your heart rate right now?" He motioned to my neck and the jugular within. "Go on, count it."

"It's…eighty per minute."

"Mine's at seventy-five."

"So?"

"So, imagine what Clyde's has to be right now. He just committed what could be considered a mass murder, snuck in and out of the crime scene undetected, to his knowledge, and this is a guy who isn't physically violent, or active. Clyde's heart is doing easily one hundred plus right now. He's also gonna be flooded with adrenaline. What would that make him?"

"Hyped up, I guess?"

"Hyped up, jittery, paranoid, confused, jumpy, reactionary, a nervous wreck. We walk up to that door and knock on it right now, odds are good we'd get shot at. If it were the cops, you know they'd be chomping at the bit to go all gangbusters…and they'd get themselves into a gunfight. Since we are not the cops, we'll wait a bit for Clyde to calm down, let that adrenaline drain."

"Wait, wait…there's something else to, isn't there?"

"Now you're catching on. Because civvies got hurt, or even killed, there's a good chance the cops could show up. Or, since we know Cole explicitly told Clyde not to do something like this, Cole could show up any second too. Third, Clyde had help, seven of them in all. Since Conwell's outta the picture, no doubt he's been picked up to languish in Moshannon Valley, there's still six of 'em that could show up too. That's more trouble than we want to deal with. So we'll wait and see if any of the three groups show their faces, and for Clyde to mellow out."

"When you put it that way, it makes perfect sense. Why didn't I think of that?"

"Two steps ahead Kemosabe…two steps ahead…" He continued to type. "In the meantime, I know you have a knack for design and engineering. How about thinking of a way to supplement our twelve hundred rifle deficit, and our complete lack of submachine guns?"

"There's a few ideas I've been kicking around…huummm…" I started the warm up procedure of my brain's cathodes, took out my pen and notebook, and settled in to wait.

. . .

She wasn't sure who or what, but something was back there. Haruko could feel its eyes on the back of her head. Whatever it was, she was in no mood to humor another annoyance. Already she had wandered far from the area of town she was familiar with. Now she found herself on a tree lined residential sidewalk with no destination in particular. She hoisted the guitar's strap a little higher on her shoulder and continued the raving rant inside her head.

'Just WHO in the HELL, does that limp-dicked, panty-waisted, bottom-feeding, under-evolved, over-rated, pretentious, arrogant, stubborn, empty-headed, PUNK think HE is to have the CAJONES to be giving ME this kind of UN-warranted, UN-called for, blatantly unrepentant insubordination?! Huh?! He doesn't even know half, no, a quarter, an eighth! A thousandth! Of what I've been through, the self-less, noble sacrifices I've made along the course of my virtuous endeavors…'

Okay, okay, OKAY. That's enough. This author can only tolerate so much self-delusion. Haruko, let's bring it down about, 10 or 15, how about 20 percent? Keep that energy and enthusiasm, lose some of the hyperbole. Thank you, as you were.

'At least when I was in Space there was no one nagging at me day and freakin' night. Naota'll make a great housewife someday.' She turned another corner. It was a test to see if the presence behind her was actually following her. If she made it around the whole block and was still being followed, then woe unto the nosey bastard tailing her! 'But seriously. What's his problem? It's been four years, I'd have thought he'd grown up, and gotten over all that by now. Wasn't he supposed to be the one who was always 'Hur-dur, look-it me, I'm so mature! Look at me in my Ivory Tower of Condescending!' Doesn't he get that Mabase was just a skirmish; a single Iron that Medical Mechanica didn't even bother to guard, just one orbital weapon, and only a handful of robots! They went easy on us! That town needed some action anyway, a shakeup. As a matter of fact, I'd even say I did them a favor by saving the entire place from dying of boredom. Sure, what…two-thousand-and-change people got killed? Imagine if I hadn't shown up, then who knows? I mean, the I.I.B. was doing such, a bang-up job of fucking everything up; talk about clueless. That Iron could've gone active and there would have been no one around to stop it, 'cause I'd have never opened that channel in Naota, and then Atomsk would've never had his chance to escape, and would still be locked up with Medical Mechanica, and Earth would have been just another brick in The Red Star of The Solar Federation's wall. So…THERE.' She made the second turn, and it seemed the figure was gone. Better keep going to make sure.

'It's all really a matter of perspective. What's two thousand odd compared to having ninety percent of your entire species go the way of genocide, and the remaining ten percent scattered to the far ends of the Galaxy? Uh-huh, go ahead, I'll wait. That's what I thought. It's fuckin' chump change, that's what! And until Naota understands that, and gets it imbedded in that thick skull of his, he's gonna forever be crying over a few drops of spilled milk instead of realizing it could have been his house that got blown up, his planet and civilization too, and everything and everyone he loved along with it. AND! Don't even get me started on that empathy crap! He thought I was pathetic?! Oh, oh-ho-ho! I'll show him pa…the…uh…oh.'

"Good morning, Miss Haruko Haruhara." While facing the armored and gear-driven fury of Medical Mechancia robots, Haruko had never shirked from a fight. Running from black-clad and assault rifle toting Marines had not phased her in the least. Even confronting Naota with Atomsk's absorbed powers had not seen her willingly cede the field. Now, on that sunny Pennsylvanian sidewalk, her body locked up in frigid horror. No fog sifted into her mind, it was too sharp to be dulled by such a trick. No mist bothered to try clouding her eyes, what she could plainly see was terrifying enough. She could feel how widely her eyes had opened, pupils dilating to their maximum to gather as much visual data as possible. The air trapped in her lungs turned to icy spikes while her brain tried to remember if breathing was required while trying not to panic. As tightly and densely as her stomach was winding in on itself, it was only a matter of time before it formed a black hole. All this began and occurred within a blink of a second, as soon as she perceived the figure standing before her.

'No…how, how did one, of…THEM…find me?' She thought in between her instincts begging for orders: FIGHT?! FLIGHT?! FIGHT?! FLIGHT?! If you Fight, that Thing'll rip your arms off at the shoulder and cram them finger-first down your throat! If you try Flight, you'll only die tired! And they like to chase things too! What do we do?! And, probably not worst of all, but most humiliating certainly, was that for once, Haruko couldn't think of a single clever or snarky thing to say.

"You're a hard woman to find, and yet…here you are!" Haruko did not believe in any God, Allah, Buddha, Shiva, any sort of divine being or omnipotent, all-knowing, all-mighty, higher power. But she did have a Devil that to her existed as surely as Gravity is Law. Her Devil did not walk on cloven hooves, wield a trident, swish an arrowed tail, or present itself with red skin, horns, and glowing eyes. This Devil was much more underhanded, and much cleverer. It was polite. It was courteous, friendly even. It offered a smile as warm and soft as the day. It was even well dressed. Mirror polished black shoes. Pressed black slacks. A trim, custom-tailored, four piece suit. A glossy waistcoat. An attache case and long coat, both hands gloved in tight leather. A hidden face behind blacked out sunglasses and under a wide-brimmed fedora. And finally, a flashing silver chain from the waistcoat to a large pocketwatch of the same metal. This Devil, this walking, breathing, pleasantly chatting, smiling, Nightmare, was exactly as Haruko remembered; even with ten years and several planets removed.

"And exactly on time too!" The pocketwatch snapped shut and was replaced in its pocket on the waistcoat. "Oh dear me. I haven't frightened you speechless, have I?"

"Hardly." Wrenching her jaws to open felt like she would break them doing so, but she managed to speak without any tremor to her voice. "I was just wondering where and how you had found the courage to show your despicable self in public. Yet somehow, against all common sense and decency, here you are."

"Hmm-hmm-hmm, ah-ha, Ha-ha-ha, Ah-Hah-Hah-HAH!" Somehow, and much to her fury, The Man in Black found her insult highly amusing. "Oh, you are as charming as ever, Miss Haruhara. It has been far too long. In fact, I would be most pleased if you joined me for breakfast."

"I would rather be beaten to death with my own Guitar, from the toes up."

"Let's not jump to each other's throat just yet. Why, you haven't even heard my proposition; and I'm quite proud of it. I wrote it special, just for you. Come, let's have a heart to heart."

. . .


First (now that I found my list!) to the Guest reviewer who predicted, back in Chapter 5, a bridge between 'Redneck of Roanapur' and this story...congratulations on your comeback Michel de Nostredame! You've been paying attention, I like you.

To those of you who have played Call of Duty: MW2 and MW3, you know of the Moscow Airport Massacre, and the London Chemical Attack; especially the latter as it was filmed from a first person perspective. The few short paragraphs describing the event at McDonald's were the hardest to write, and I even considered cutting them from the story. They were going to be replaced by the P.P.D. dispatch and radio transmissions from responding officers. But I decided, no, the readers can handle it, and this is a part that needs to stay. If you can't do this, then what is to come will never get done. That said, I made sure not to work on that part while on lunch break. I do not need the General Manager to be making his rounds and find me typing that up.

Haruko, if transformed into an animal, would definitely be a cat. When a cat does something it's not supposed to (and I have two cats at home, so trust me) it doesn't care. Knocked over the lamp and broke it? Meh. Whatever. Took a dump on the rug? Well...screw you. I'm a cat. I dump on whatever rug I feel like. No sense of guilt is built into their system...and Haruko feels to me exactly the same way. Nothing is her fault, and even if it was, she will perform somersaults, back and front flips to twist it into a positive thing. Got two thousand plus people killed and a town destroyed? Hey, if it weren't for me, there wouldn't even be a town to destroy. So really...you owe me an apology, and a thank you. I have a feeling this back and forth between her and Naota can only go on for barely so much longer. (Pulls the UST come-along winch just a tad tighter...click-click-click...any second now...click-click-click...)

Closing out...The Man in Black gives me the heebee-freakin'-jeebees. God he's spooky. And I made him. I know I've said this many times before, but...bhuhuh. The same to Clyde...just...bhuhuh. If there were a sin I'd be closest to, it would be Gluttony. But I wouldn't want to be caught dead anywhere near this guy.

On a happier note, please search in youtube for: M1895 Colt-Browning Machine Gun. It is such an interesting mechanical wonder, and despite its turn of the 19th century birthday, is quite deadly too. It's fun just to watch it work. John Moses Browning, a genius indeed.

As always, you're probably tired of me saying it, but thank you all so, so much for reading and reviewing. There are long days at the office, the weather here is dark, cold and wet, I'm quitting as much sugar as I can so I'm going through an energy flux right now, but there has always been fanfiction and you readers. Thank you again for taking time out of your days to read my writings, it means so much to me.